


Dreams of Hope

by Todesengel



Series: Mag7 Bingo [7]
Category: Magnificent Seven (TV)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-12-03
Updated: 2011-12-03
Packaged: 2017-10-26 19:55:06
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,051
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/287246
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Todesengel/pseuds/Todesengel
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p><i>I know how men in exile feed on dreams of hope</i> - Aeschylus.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Dreams of Hope

The first time it happened, he and Chris had just finished putting in the last of the fieldstones for the foundation of Chris's new cabin. Vin had stripped down to just his trousers – too damned hot for even an undershirt – and when they'd finished shifting and tapping the stone into just the right place, he'd gone to the water trough and dunked his head into it. The water wasn't particularly cold, but it was cold enough that he shivered in pleasure when he straightened up and felt the water run from his head and down his chest and spine. For a moment, he just gloried in the sensations of his body: the coolness of the wind on his sweat damp skin; the slow, pleasant ache of the muscles in his arms and back from a good day's work; even the warmth of the sun slowly drying out the water soaking his hair. He turned to Chris, ready to say something innocuous, meaningless -- about the cabin; about the horses; about the weather -- and the words left him; he couldn't remember what he'd wanted to say, or almost any words at all. Because there it was. The look. The fire. The slow, lingering burn in Chris's eyes.

He hadn't expected that; hadn't ever thought to see that look of lust and wanting in Chris's eyes. Ezra's, maybe, but never Chris for all that they sparked like lightning when they were together. Far as he'd been able to tell, Chris's taste didn't run like his, didn't run towards the hard planes of another man's body, the fullness of another man's cock.

"Chris?" he said, voice higher and shakier than he would have liked. He cleared his throat and tried again. "Chris, want some water?"

"Vin," Chris said, low, sultry, full of meaning. "Come here."

He'd swallowed around the sudden dryness in his mouth. He went to Chris, slowly, and though he'd known what Chris would do – known it by the look in Chris's eyes – it was still a shock when Chris kissed him.

Chris tasted of sweat and tobacco and coffee, of maleness and madness, and Vin's breath caught in his throat at the rush of it all. It had been too long since he'd kissed another man. Too long since any hand but his own had brushed back his hair from his brow, or ghosted lightly across his nipples.

"Oh fuck," he said, because he couldn't think of anything else to say.

"That's what I reckoned on doing," Chris said, and Vin grinned at him because he'd reckoned on doing that too.

"Here, let me," Vin said, reaching down to undo the buttons on Chris's trousers. He could already see the hardness of Chris's cock outlined by his pants, full and heavy and thick, and he licked his lips in anticipation.

"Reckon I should…" Chris began, and he suddenly sounded unsure – as if, perhaps, he was rethinking this, rethinking what they were doing.

"Reckon you should just let me suck your cock," Vin said. Because he wanted this. Oh, how he wanted this. And he had yet to meet a man who would refuse an offer like that, not when that man was as hard as Chris was.

"That'll do," Chris laughed, and Vin sank down to his knees and took Chris's cock into his mouth. It was so strange to do so – not for any real reason beyond the fact that it was Chris's, and it felt somehow both right and wrong to be able to feel Chris's pulse against his tongue. Until now, until today, the physicality of their connection had been separate, distant. Vin had known Chris's body, like it was his own, but only by sight, never like this. Never so close that he could see each wiry curl of dark-blond hair on Chris's balls; smell the sweat of his body; feel the silky smoothness of the skin of his cock, soft as a new-budded leaf, and so unlike the rest of Chris's skin.

With one hand he palmed himself through his own trousers and drawers; with the other, he stroked and squeezed the base of Chris's cock. Chris put his hands on Vin's shoulders, but whether they were there to brace himself, or hold Vin down, or push him away, Vin couldn't tell. It didn't matter, though, because it didn't take long for Chris to come, and when he did his grip tightened hard enough to bruise and drive Vin's knees into crumbling soil. Vin pulled back, choking from the sudden rush of Chris's orgasm, and the last of Chris's seed hit him on the chin and chest. Vin breathed deep, took in all the smells around him – the pungency of Chris's lust, the dryness of the earth, the ever-present scent of horse and leather. He rocked back onto his heels and pulled out his own cock, stroked himself in short, sharp jerks until he spilled his seed upon the ground.

 _Consecratin' the ground_ , he thought to himself, and grinned.

"What's so funny?" Chris said as he tucked himself back into his pants.

"Nothin'." Vin pulled his bandana from out of his back pocket and used it to wipe himself clean Chris's spunk.

Chris eyed him, then shrugged, clearly choosing to pass over Vin's peculiarities.

"Well, I figure we should be heading back to town," he said.

"Reckon that's best," Vin agreed.

*

The second time was so long after the first that Vin had begun to wonder if that afternoon had been just a dream. Certainly Chris hadn't acted any different than usual. There was no shying away from the occasional contact, no anger or shame or snappishness like Vin had sometimes encountered with other men in the same situation. But there were no long sultry looks, either, no fire, no longing, no lust in Chris's eyes. Nothing to make it seem like that moment had meant anything at all – had been anything at all, beyond a moment in the harsh desert sun. And then one day he had looked up from where he sat slouched in a chair in front of the jail, hat pulled down low against the afternoon light, feet up and crossed on the porch's rail, and Chris had that look back in his eyes.

The same heat, the same want, the same hardness – and it was as though there hadn't been more than a breath between that afternoon and this one. Vin stared up at Chris and between one heartbeat and the next he felt his prick grow stiff and aching.

"Vin," Chris said, his spurs jangling as he walked the short length of the porch to where Vin sat, a slow, rolling swagger to his step. "Got something to show you."

"Now?" Vin said.

"Best time for it." And Chris led him away from the jail, without words or hands, and up the creaking stairs to the room he rented in the boarding house.

There was whiskey in Chris's kiss, this time, and the lingering sweetness of honey. It was maddening, the way a simple kiss could make him ache so. Chris's hands were on his waist, fumbling with the buttons to his trousers, scrabbling at the cloth like hungry dogs at the kitchen door.

"Shit," Chris muttered into Vin's mouth, and he broke the kiss to look down at what his hands were doing. Vin laughed, a noiseless chuckle that resonated in his chest but didn't escape his throat.

"Harder when they ain't your own, innit," he said, and Chris flashed him a quick, sharp smile.

"Too damn many of them," Chris said as he popped the last one, then reached in and fished Vin's cock out from behind the front flap of his drawers.

"Aw Christ," Vin said, and he pressed his forehead against Chris's shoulder and thrust into the rough, calloused warmth of Chris's hand. He gripped the sharp edges of Chris's hips and bit down hard on his lip, let the pain and tang of blood dull the keenness of his arousal.

Chris laughed, low and dirty, into his ear, squeezed and pulled roughly on his cock, and said, "Ain't gotta hold back for me, Vin."

"Aw Christ, Chris," Vin said again, and then he was shuddering his way through his orgasm, cock pulsing and spilling his seed upon the old wood floor.

Vin took a deep breath and looked into Chris's eyes, which sparkled like they were the devil's own.

"I can –" he began, unsure of what he was offering. To take Chris's cock in hand? To suck him off as he did before? To take it further and let Chris slip his cock between his thighs and fuck him like a woman? He would do any of those things, and happily; he just didn't know what Chris wanted, and the uncertainty of it all made him hesitant and lost.

"You can do anything you like, Vin. Don't gotta feel obligated on my account."

But that was no answer, no answer at all. There was no obligation here – at least, not from Vin – and he didn't have the words for what he wanted to do with Chris; he barely knew what he wanted himself, except to do this again, to feel Chris's hands on him again, and again, and again. So Vin did what he always did when he was in an unfamiliar land and pressed forward, searching for signs, for a trail. He slid a thigh between Chris's and felt the warm bulge of Chris's cock. He rocked against that hardness and watched Chris's face, listened to the slow roughening of his breath. He pressed harder, sped up, as he felt Chris thrust against him. He thought, for a moment, of undoing the buttons on Chris's pants, of freeing Chris's cock from the confines of cotton and wool, but Chris didn't seem to care about the layers of cloth between their bodies, so Vin didn't either. And maybe Chris liked that; the feel of soft cotton becoming rough as it grew damp and sticky, the friction of cloth against sensitized skin – so different from the friction of flesh on flesh. Or maybe he was too lost in the moment to care, like Vin had been the first time someone had done this for him.

Chris came with the same intensity that he did everything else, and though Vin had known this – he'd had the imprint of Chris's fingers on his skin for days after the first time – he hadn't truly _seen_ it. Hadn't been witness to the way Chris flushed, the way his entire being seemed to narrow and center solely on his cock. It was a sight to behold, and Vin was glad he didn't have the distraction of his own wants and needs tugging at his focus.

"Reckon I owe you a new pair of pants," Vin said when Chris's breathing evened out again, and his eyes no longer held the dangerous gleam of lust and need.

"Just pay my laundry bill and we'll call it square," Chris said. He stepped away and looked down at his crotch and the mess he and Vin had made of it. "Don't know how I'll explain this to Mr. Wong."

"Could always do it yourself," Vin said.

Chris laughed and headed for the door. "Yeah. Reckon I could. But it wouldn't be half as fun."

*

The third time happened two days later, back once more on Chris's land. He'd been heading out there with a box of nails and a packet of sandpaper from Watson's, with the vague intention of letting Chris know he'd be over near Horseshoe Pass for a few days tracking down a bounty, when he was caught in midst of a thunderstorm that swept over him like God's own fury. By the time he was off his horse and in the lee of a small stand of gnarled trees, it was gone, passed over him, and heading off into the distant mountains.

He was still soaked by the time he got to Chris's place, his hide coat heavy and stifling, his thighs beginning to chafe from the rub of his saddle. Only thing he wanted to do right then was get off his horse and dry out in the sun – the bounty could wait the few hours that would take.

"Chris," he shouted as he cantered up to the bit of sod Chris had claimed as his own. "Chris, it's Vin."

He slid down off of Peso's back and hitched him to hitching post; still looking as new as the day Chris had built it, though it had been the first thing Chris had put in, placed even before he'd staked out the site of his cabin. He pulled the saddle off of Peso and slung it and the saddle blanket over the rail to dry as well. Then his pack and roll – everything taken out and spread across the nearest branch or stone or rail he could find – then his coat, his shirt, pants, drawers; he pulled off every stitch of clothing he wore and draped it somewhere until he stood, naked except for his hat, and ankle deep in the mud.

"Chris," he shouted again. "Hope you don't mind if I stay here for a bit. Got caught in that damn storm and –"

And the words left him again, because there Chris was, as naked as the dawn and twice as blinding. Vin was too far away to see the look in Chris's eyes – to see if that mad lust was back; but he didn't need Chris's eyes to let him know what was on Chris's mind. Chris's cock told him plainly enough, jutting out from the hard planes of his belly as proud and stiff as a lone rock spire.

"See you've made yourself at home," Chris said as he approached.

"Reckon we ain't got much need for modesty," Vin said.

"No," Chris said. "Figure you're right about that."

He eyed Vin's body and Vin eyed him right back, took in all the scars and lines that Chris's life had wrought upon his flesh. He wondered what Chris saw, what Chris thought of the ugly purple gash low on his hip from an arrow wound gone bad; the parallel scars upon his forearms where a mountain lion had clawed at him as it died. He wondered if Chris thought him beautiful, or strange, or merely convenient.

"Damn, you're a sight," Chris sighed, and this his hands were upon Vin's body, his cock pressing hard against Vin's belly.

"Ain't gonna win no beauty contest yourself," Vin said, but kindly, for Chris was beautiful to him. More beautiful than any man he had ever known.

Chris laughed, and kissed him, and rubbed his stubbly cheek against Vin's neck, whuffling into his ear like a horse nosing around for a treat. Vin shivered at the damp heat of Chris's breath, at the scratch of his chin, at the pleasant neediness that Chris's actions aroused. He reached down between their bodies and stroked the length of Chris's cock slowly, languidly, and shivered again at the pleased little noise Chris made in the back of his throat. He did it again, then nipped at the curve of Chris's neck, tasting sweet rainwater and sweet grass upon his skin.

One last, long, slow stroke, and then he pulled Chris down onto the ground with him. He used all the tricks he'd been taught – the innocent ones from long ago when the wrestling had been purely a game, and the not so innocent ones from the more recent past, when he'd met a man as inclined as he was – to force Chris's legs apart, until Chris straddled him, a heavy, welcome weight upon the length of Vin's body.

"Vin, what're you—" Chris began to say, but Vin cut him off by thrusting up against Chris's belly, and using that movement to trap Chris's cock between his thighs.

"What I want," Vin said, and he thrust again and felt the entire length of Chris's cock glide along the underside of his balls.

"Oh holy—" Chris said as understanding dawned, and then he began thrusting back, and Vin grinned and moaned and let the friction of their combined skin push him over the edge.

It seemed to take no time at all for their rutting to end, and when it was over they were both a mess, covered in mud and sweat. Vin basked in the simplicity of it all, in the simple pleasure of flesh sated and the simple joy of Chris's body resting against his.

Then Chris was gone, rolling off of him and standing up. He surveyed his body with dismay, then looked down at Vin, who felt no need to rise to more than his elbows; felt no woe at all about the thick gray mud that caked his back, and regretted only that his hat had been a minor casualty to their pleasure.

"Gonna need a bath," Chris said, looking down at the splashes of mud upon his legs and belly. "Can't go anywhere looking like this."

"Figure that stream of yours should do," Vin said. "Oughta be right full, what with the rain and all."

Chris grimaced and sighed. "Yeah, and damn cold, too, I reckon."

*

The fourth time was behind the saloon, both of them drunk and sloppy.

The fifth in the Livery, Vin on his knees amid the dust and hay.

The sixth back at Chris's place, upon the new wood floor.

The seventh, Vin's wagon; the eighth, a meadow; the ninth, Chris's place again, and again, and again, and again, until Vin stopped tracking the number of times he caught that look in Chris's eyes, or the number of places they satisfied their lust. They began to run together, notable only in the times between – sometimes days, or weeks, or months would pass before Chris would turn and look at Vin with that mad glint in his eyes. The time and place and even what they did didn't matter, because each and every one was the same; always brief, always fleeting, always with Chris the first to stand, or turn, or leave. They would come together like leaves swirling in an eddy, fast and unstoppable and utterly unpredictable, and soon it became just another aspect of Vin's life. Their rutting was as constant and violent in its passion as their defense of the town.

And if Vin wanted more – wanted to rest, a while, against Chris's warmth – he would never ask. He figured it wasn't his place to ask for such things, not when Chris had made it clear that this was something he wouldn't give.

So was life. A day, a week, a month; a parting, a coming; in town, or out in the bush, or in Chris's cabin, built barely big enough for one, let alone two. Vin figured time would sort things out and either he'd move on or Chris would, and in the meantime he would just enjoy what life gave him and not think about the other things.

It was hard, though, sometimes, and he was thinking about Chris – about them, and life, and whether it was time to move on – when JD plopped down next to him at the poker table in the saloon one day, and said, "Didja see in the papers? Bunch of Indians out in Texas massacred a hunting camp!"

"Yeah? What else is new," Buck said.

"Said there were hundreds of them," JD said. He shook his head and added, "Folks out in Texas say the Comanches have gone crazy, attacking like that."

"Comanches, huh," Vin said, because he'd been hearing rumors about something big happening back home; grumbling and fear among the comancheros, talk of a new medicine man uniting the tribes.

"Yeah." JD spread the paper out on the table. It covered the penny-ante pot they'd been playing for, but nobody had really been in the game, not even Ezra. "Says here a hunter by the name of Vasquez witnessed the whole thing. Says there had to have been at least a hundred and fifty of 'em!" JD turned to Vin, eyes bright with excitement. "You spent time with them, right Vin? That normal? A hundred and fifty Comanche attacking at once?"

"Nope." Vin put down his cards and stood up. "Reckon I'll see you boys around."

"Vin? Hey! Vin! Where're you going?"

"Home."

*

He stopped by Chris's place on his way out of town, his Winchester rifle strapped firmly in his saddle holster and ten boxes of shot weighing down his bags. There was a pile of logs stacked out behind the cabin, to cure in the weak spring sun – too big for firewood and too few to be a new addition on the place. Chris was sitting in the shade of his porch, saddle over one knee, a rag in his right hand and a bottle of neatsfoot oil beside him. He didn't bother looking up as Vin walked Peso up the dirt road, and Vin didn't bother to get down.

"You read the papers?" Vin asked, leaning on the horn of his saddle.

"Yeah." Chris rubbed away at a spot on the stirrup. "You going?"

"Yeah. Might be a while." Vin nodded at the logs. "You building another corral?"

"Something like that." Chris rubbed the spot again, then moved up to the fender. Vin waited for him to speak, to say something, for any kind of a sign, but Chris just worked the leather of his saddle in long, slow strokes.

That was probably a sign enough, and Vin figured that it was time he was moving on anyway.

"Well," he said, at last, swinging Peso's head around to the North. "Be seeing you."

Vin was almost to the tree line before he heard Chris call out, "Watch your back!"

*

He stopped for the night on the edge of the Llano Estacado, and stripped himself of all his Western things – shirt, pants, boots, coat, hat. He rolled them up and stuffed them into his pack, then pulled out the deerskin breeches and moccasins that he'd made long ago. It felt strange to put them on, to part and braid his hair – long enough, now, to reach the bottom of his shoulder blades – and paint himself for war. He'd been away too long, been apart from his tribe for too long. Still, he was Numinu, and there was war.

He joined the war party on the third day, though it was nearly touch-and-go. It had been a long, long time since any of his tribe had seen him. And he had not parted well with his family.

But it was war, and he was Numinu.

And yet, and yet.

And yet, he had not been Numinu for a long time. He had not hunted the buffalo, or made war on the whites, or traveled on the endless grass sea in many years. So he lay awake at night and thought of Chris, of JD, of Ezra, of Nathan and Buck and Josiah, and the tribe they had made together. And as the wind made the long grass sway and sing, he found himself longing for the lonely sighs of the rocks and the heady scent of sage.

By the time they attacked the hunter's camp at Adobe Walls, he had begun to regret his decision to make war. Perhaps the rumors he had heard hadn't been a sign that it was time to return to this life. Perhaps they had just been the rustling of leaves stirred by the passage of an empty wind.

He was Numinu, though.

And it was war.

But every determined face he saw peeking over through the town's windows, or around the barricaded doors, made him think of those he knew back home. It made him hesitate, wheel away from the attack, and that was when one of the bastards in the general store shot him, the bullet creasing the skin of his chest, leaving a red-hot pain in its wake. Anger welled up inside of him – anger at this inglorious wound; at the senselessness of this battle; at these white men, these cowards who called themselves hunters, and killed the buffalo of his people without once testing their nerve and skill by plucking an arrow from an angry bull's hide – and he raised his Winchester to his shoulder and fired again and again and again and again, until his arms shook from the force of the recoil and he could no longer aim.

By then the raid was over, and for all Isa-tai blustered, it was clear that his medicine had failed.

One by one the tribes began to peel away, heading off for their own hunting grounds. He sat on his horse and watched them go, these men who had once been his family, his fathers and grandfathers and brothers and uncles. The wound on his chest ached abominably, and his blood made the leather of his shirt stiffen and darken as it dried.

Right then, all he wanted was Nathan and one of his physics, and the thought of Four Corners made him ache deeper than he knew he could.

It was time to go home.

*

He traded his rifle and his remaining bullets to the man he used to call brother for two brood mares for Chris and a buffalo hide blanket for himself. He cut his own sleeping roll into strips and boiled the cloth for bandages, then bound his wound up as best he could. He kept it doused in whiskey, when he had some; Nathan had said wounds needed to be clean, and he figured the fire of the alcohol was as clean as he could get out on the plains.

A mile from the settlement, he came upon a small pond. He washed the paint from his face and body and the grease from his hair. Washed away all the traces of his past, and let go of his Comanche name, cut off the twin braids that those who had once been his people wore as a symbol of pride. He put on his white man's clothes – as unfamiliar, now, as the deerskins had been – and resumed his white man's life. And yet the reflection of the man who stared back at him from the still surface of the water was a stranger. His skin was darker than he remembered, and there were new lines on his face. He wasn't Vin Tanner, not anymore. He couldn't be, not out here. Not friendless and alone.

He stopped for the night in Tascosa – a calculated risk, and if he had not run out of whiskey the night before, he would have kept on going. But it had been years since that business with Eli Joe and the unfortunate soul whose death still hung heavy around his neck. Besides, he figured he looked different enough, now, to pass through the night. If he could no longer recognize himself, then surely neither could the strangers in this place.

And yet, they did, since the poor sod's brother ran the saloon, and it was to the saloon that he headed for first. He thought it entirely unfair that he be hung for a crime pinned on a man who no longer existed, but the poor sod's brother was of the shoot first variety. He barely managed to overturn the table before the first shot was fired, and even that wasn't enough, the bullet piercing the old, worn wood and thudding deep into his thigh.

"I'll kill you, Vin Tanner!" the brother shouted. "I'll kill you dead!"

"I ain't Vin Tanner," he shouted back, as he began dragging himself towards the door.

"I'll kill you!" the brother shouted and fired again and again and again, his aim made wild by his rage and grief, and stopped only when the sheriff put him down.

"Sorry 'bout that," the sheriff told him. "Ol' Marcus just ain't been right in the head since some bounty hunting bastard done murdered his brother eight years ago. Always knew it'd only be a matter of time 'fore he lost all his sense. Anyway, we best get you to the sawbones 'fore you lose that leg."

He nodded at the sheriff and let the men carry him down the street to the drunken surgeon's tent. It took the man three hours to dig the bullet out, and by the time it was over he'd left permanent dents in the leather wrapped stick they'd thrust between his teeth to muffle his screaming. He refused to let the man sew the wound closed, though, or pack it full of the dirty bandages that hung down from the tent's crossbeam. He limped his way to the general store instead and bought a jar of Dr. Lister's Patented Carbolic Paste, as much laudanum as he could get for five dollars, and two bottles of the local rotgut. He drank the better part of both bottles of booze that night, staring into his campfire until he went nearly blind, and used what was left to scour the open, bloody wound until he could no longer separate the pain of his body from the pain in his soul.

After that, the journey was a blur of laudanum and pain. He pushed himself and the horses as hard as he could bear, though in time he lost track of the reason for his urgency, the reason for his haste. He no longer knew where he was going, only where he had been; no longer knew what he hoped to find at the end of this endless road. Days lost meaning – time lost meaning – and he only knew that he had progressed by the slow healing of the wound in his leg and the monotonous shift from one desert to another. Everything else was the same: each town laid out exactly like the other, each shot of whiskey the same as the last, every moment so wrapped up in the numbing bliss of laudanum that it seemed he was no longer the nameless man plodding his way across the dusty earth, but instead some distant observer to this stranger's pain and hopelessness.

Two days out from Seven Rivers, his saddlebags slipped from his fingers as he was tacking Peso for the day's ride. They landed hard on their side, and he heard the crash and tinkle of breaking glass. He emptied out the bag, the glass of the broken brown laudanum bottles mixed with those of his whiskey and what was left of the Dr. Lister's gritty unguent, and all of it soaking through the last of his rations. He supposed he should care about this – should worry what the loss of food and physic would do to him, but he no longer cared. Live or die – did it matter, now? He could no longer remember a reason to keep going beyond a stubborn determination to see how far he could go before death claimed him.

That night he dreamed of Chris – naked and smiling that small, gentle smile he so rarely gave. He dreamed they lay upon the sweet smelling grass of Chris's pasture, and that Chris pressed slow, gentle kisses against the trembling flesh of his belly, his thighs. That Chris then took his cock into his mouth and he thrust into that warmth, into the sly smirk that still played on Chris's lips. He gasped and arched his hips; gasped again when he felt Chris's thumb brush against the soft ridges of his hole. They had never done this – any of this. Chris had always been the recipient when it came to this, the taking of another man's cock into his mouth, and there had never been enough time to discuss what else two men could do, what other ways they could find to pleasure their bodies.

"God Chris, yes, please," he begged. "Please, please, please."

"Tell me what you want," Chris said.

"I don't know," he said.

"Gotta tell me what it is. Can't read your mind, Vin."

"I don't know. I don't know!" he cried out, and in crying he woke himself up, and in waking he was once more in pain and alone.

Eight miles from Horseshoe Pass, the wound went bad. He wasn't a doctor, but he could tell when sickness set in, when the heat he felt was from fever and not just the sun. He could barely sit his saddle by the time he rode into the small town, and it took everything he had to make it to the Livery and stable his horses.

"Mister, you all right?" The stable master asked, but he couldn't answer. He didn't know if he'd ever be able to answer that question.

"Whiskey," he said. "And a bed. And more whiskey."

"Ok, mister. Ok."

He didn't know how long he stayed holed up in Horseshoe Pass, alternatively sweating from fever and shaking from chills, waving his mare's leg around as a threat against anybody who tried to carry him out of his bed and down to the local butcher. He used whiskey and honey and maggots to clean the wound of the bad flesh; and even more whiskey to keep himself from puking as he did so.

He thought he called out for Chris.

He thought he called out for his mother.

He thought, in a passing delirium, that Nathan was there, talking him down from a fevered rage; that they loaded him onto a cart and brought him home – to live or die, he wasn't sure.

He thought he saw nothing but the open sky.

*

He woke – after how long he didn't know – to darkness. He turned, restlessly, weakly, searching for the candle he remembered putting on the dresser beside him. But there was no dresser, nor a candle, nor anything remotely like. Instead, there was a body, warm and male, and the smell of horses and spruce and sweet grass. He thought of Chris, and the thought made his cock stir and ache in the memory of their meetings.

"Whoa there," he heard Chris say. "Don't think Nathan'd recommend doing that right now. Not with you weak as a kitten and all."

"Where?" he asked, because he wasn't sure if he was dead or dreaming. Chris wasn't here, up in Horseshoe Pass. Nobody was. And yet, he was certain Chris had spoken to him, certain in his bones.

"My place," Chris said. "Nathan figured you were too weak to make it all the way back to town by the time we got here. Reckon I could take as good a care of you here as anywhere else, anyway."

Vin sighed, and he knew now that he was dead, because he was home and he had no home to go to in his life. "Ain't got a bed," he told this vision of Chris.

"Built it while you was gone." In the darkness Vin heard Chris strike a match, and then a lantern flared. It was too bright for his eyes, and he murmured a protest, tried to bring an arm up to block out the light.

"Hush now," Chris said. "Don't go moving 'round so much. Bed's only so big, after all."

"This heaven?" Vin asked. "Didn't reckon it'd be so small."

"Ain't heaven, Vin. Just my place, and my bed."

"I'm dead, ain't I."

"Not yet, you ain't," and Chris sounded so sure of this fact that Vin almost believed him. "Brought you home safe from Horseshoe Pass. Local sheriff locked you up for being a disturbance. You're damn lucky Judge Travis was passing through 'fore you died and recognized you. Sent a wire on down to Mary, and me and Nathan and Josiah went up to fetch you home."

"Don't remember that."

"Happened, though." Chris shook his head. "Thought I told you to watch your back."

Vin looked away. He could believe, now, whole-heartedly, that he was alive; if not because of the pain in his leg then because of the peevishness in Chris's tone. He could barely grasp the enormity of that thought, could barely consider where he was. The truth of being alive was hard enough to think on.

"You built a bed," he said, because it was all he could think to say.

"Well," Chris said, "figured it was about time."

**Author's Note:**

> Note zero: This story has been rewritten (semi-majorly) since it was originally posted in my DWJ.
> 
> Vocab notes. First, sandpaper is a period accurate word. The first patent for sandpaper in the US was filed in 1834 by Isaac Fischer, Jr., who referred to it as [glafs(sic) or sand paper](http://www.datamp.org/patents/search/advance.php?pn=8246X&id=7537&set=1). (Don't worry, link will not actually take you to his patent application. I'm not cruel like that.) Second, so is spunk. Mostly. [The first recorded use of spunk as slang for seminal fluid is in 1888](http://www.etymonline.com/index.php?allowed_in_frame=0&search=spunk&searchmode=none). Which is a bit out of the time frame, but not by much. Look, just be glad I didn't call anybody's boy bits a "nipple of love". Thirdly, Numinu is a transliterated spelling of the name the Comanche call themselves (and hopefully that sentence makes sense).
> 
> Which leads us to handwaving point the first: Vin as a Comanche warrior. Ok. So, yes, there's handwaving not with respect to the fact that Vin could conceivably be a Comanche warrior (because the Comanche kidnapped young boys of various races/ethnicities and adopted them as Comanche) but that Vin was a Comanche warrior and left to live as a white man. There's some historical precedent for this happening (see: [Herman Lehmann](http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Herman_Lehmann)) but, yeah. Mostly handwaving on my part. Also, have found at least one internet source saying the Comanche were armed with firearms during the battle.
> 
> Handwaving point the second: the geography. Look. The geography in the show is incredibly messed up. Seriously, the only way the town could be within spitting distance of Mexico _and_ make sense with where pioneers historically settled in New Mexico is if they were all riding robot horses. I have bent the laws of space/time and the historical record in this fic no more than the show itself (which is to say: a lot). Because, see, the Second Battle of Adobe Walls took place sort of in the middle of the Texas panhandle (and, also, lasted for 4 days. Which mine clearly does not. See above re: bending laws of space/time. Also, history!fail). Which, you know, isn't all that small. And in that vein, the only town I could find in existence at the time of the battle anywhere in the Western Panhandle was Tascosa. And I seriously looked for different towns for a week. Since the only logical place (sans robot horses) for Four Corners to be located is down by the Carlsbad Caverns (and even then it doesn't really work because of that weird bit of Texas sticking out underneath the majority of SE NM) I know that there's no real way for Vin to make it from the battle site in Texas back to one of the ubiquitous one-day-away fictional towns that seem to populate the Mag7 New Mexico Territory, with an eventually infected wound, without his leg falling off. Which leads to:
> 
> Handwaving point three: frontier medicine. Ok. So, I'm hoping that it's clear that the wound only becomes infected after Vin runs out of the carbolic compound. (And for anybody who wants to cringe and never be able to sleep again: [Here are some pictures of 20 Scary Old School Surgical Tools. Including a bullet extractor from the 1500s.](http://www.surgicaltechnologists.net/blog/20-scary-old-school-surgical-tools) But, trust me. You really don't want to click that link.) This is because the first guy who ever thought of having a sterile surgical operating theatre didn't publish his work until 1865. And since basically anybody with $20 (...possibly more, possibly less) could become a surgeon through any number of diploma mills I doubt the sawbones in South Springs read any of Joseph Lister's journal articles. So assuming (and, yes, it's a big assumption) that Vin's wound was healing just fine until he got the bullet removed, there's probably still no way a man with a festering hole in his leg would be able to make it, on horseback, to the point where he needs to be in the fic before his leg fell off. However, see above, re: Fucking Insane Geography Requiring Bending Of Space And Time. Also, maggots: a known medical treatment at the time, but barely just acceptable. We're going with ancient tribal medicine on this one.


End file.
